Awakenings
by rynogeny
Summary: Five months into their marriage, Eomer and Lothiriel make some unexpected discoveries about themselves, each other, and their relationship. Sequel to Beginnings. Rated R for safety. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

A/N #1:

When I wrote Beginnings, I really had no immediate plans for a sequel. In my mind, I'd gotten them off to a good start; the rest was up to them. ;) But so many people asked for a continuation that I started thinking about it at about the same time I was tossing ideas around for a birthday fic for sg1scribe.

A/N #2:

Tolkien was a little inconsistent in regards to whether or not the Rohirrim had a written language. I've adopted the approach that the royal family and other nobles learned to read and write the common tongue (in order to facilitate communication with Gondor). Based on the idea that most Rohirrim don't read, I've taken some liberties in extrapolating other cultural differences between Rohan and Gondor.

This, then, is for sg1scribe as well as everyone else who enjoyed (and so kindly reviewed) Beginnings.

* * *

Eomer heard the roar of the water before he saw it, and suppressed an oath. His men already thought him mad; there was no point in making it worse with another display of temper. But gods, he wanted to.

Firefoot snorted as if in agreement with the men, but continued carefully picking his way through the undergrowth until they emerged onto the banks of the stream.

At least it was supposed to be a stream. But stream was an altogether too mild a word for the writhing, seething mass of water in front of him. Now what?

At a noise behind him, he glanced over his shoulder, watched Eothain ride up. The captain of his guard stared at the water for a long moment, then turned, gave Eomer a cautious look.

Eomer's gaze returned to the stream and he glared at it balefully. Autumn had seen unusually fierce rains in the mountains, resulting in swollen streams, dangerous crossings, and flooded villages. They might be able to make it across, but it would be risky, and it wasn't a risk he was willing to take – no matter how desperate he was to get back to Edoras.

If he hadn't been king, he would have sent the men back to the road and made the attempt. He knew his own skills, knew what Firefoot was capable of. But he _was_ king, and even if he was foolish enough to try and send his guard back to the road, they'd refuse to go. And although they were all good riders, he didn't know if all of them could handle the crossing.

With the road flooded and washed out in places, they'd had a choice of turning back to Gondor and waiting until the water receded and the ground began to dry, or of trying to find an alternate route around the worst of the floods. He'd opted for the latter, had hoped this little-known route through the hills would still be passable. The stream now blocking them was so small and followed such a convoluted path out of the mountains that he hadn't been able to imagine it flooding. It had certainly never done so before. Until now.

With one final glower toward the water, he turned back to Eothain. "We'll give the road another attempt. If we take the left fork as we leave the hills, we should come back to the road just west of Calenhad. Perhaps the flooding won't be so bad there."

Eothain nodded, and started to turn, when Eomer spoke again. "We'll stop for the night at that clearing we passed not long ago."

"Yes, sire." He turned and started back toward the men.

They were loyal, and Eomer hadn't heard even a hint of complaint from any of them, but he'd been driving them hard and they were all exhausted. An early night would not go amiss – and it was not as if a few extra hours were going to make that much of a difference.

Being able to cross this stream had been his final hope, his last chance of making it back to Edoras in time. Now they had no choice but to retrace their steps back to the road, adding at least two days to their journey no matter how hard they pushed. No, a few more hours weren't going to make any difference.

Discouraged, he nudged Firefoot to follow Eothain.

* * *

Lothiriel gradually came awake. Although it was still dark, morning-noises were coming through the walls. Meduseld was waking up.

As full alertness returned, she sat up, dropped her head into her hands. The day she'd been secretly dreading was here; now all that remained was to get through it. It would be no longer than any other day, and when it was over, things would be easier.

Throwing back the covers, she shivered as she reached for her dressing gown. Her chamber was freezing, and it was only autumn. How would she ever survive winter?

No. She would not think such thoughts. There was much she loved about the Mark, its people. And eventually she would get used to the colder weather. Or so everyone assured her.

Crossing the room, she knelt in front of the fire and stirred it to a brighter blaze, was cheered by both the heat and light.

The intensity of her homesickness continued to surprise her. She'd known there would be adjustments, but not to this degree. In hindsight, it had been terribly naive to think that simply because she'd always loved excursions away from Dol Amroth – to Gondor, for example – that moving to Rohan would not be that difficult.

And in truth, it wasn't that bad. Rohan was just as beautiful as Dol Amroth if in a different way, and its people were warm and kindhearted, at least for the most part. They'd been nothing but welcoming to her.

But at unexpected times, a sudden longing to smell the sea would come over her, or a fierce desire to hear her father's laugh, and it would be all she could manage not to burst into tears wherever she was.

The weakness appalled her, and made her even more determined to adjust, to find her place here.

It mattered to her that none of the Rohirrim know that there were times when she ached for her homeland, as she couldn't dislodge the fear that they would misunderstand, would think she was regretting her marriage to their King, something decidedly not true.

She suspected that Eomer knew she occasionally battled homesickness. They'd never discussed it, but she'd catch him giving her a sharp look, and he'd almost immediately request her assistance with something – nearly always something that involved spending time with him, being busy. It was very sweet of him – and it usually worked, too. With her mind off of whatever had triggered the homesickness, she would find herself once again fascinated and delighted by some new aspect of Rohirrim culture.

But Eomer was away, his first extended trip since their marriage. As they had a dozen times in the last eight weeks, her thoughts went back to the afternoon he'd come to tell her of the message summoning him south.

"_Gondor?" she stared at him blankly._

_He nodded, glanced again at the parchment in his hand, a troubled look on his face. "A messenger from Minas Tirith just arrived." He scanned the missive again. "There are rumors of trouble in the south...word has reached Elessar that some of the Haradrim believe winter will be a good time to attack Ithilien." When he looked back up, a grim expression was on his face. "Apparently, they're assuming we will not ride to Gondor's aid in winter."_

"_Then they know nothing of the men of the Mark, nor of the bond between Gondor and Rohan," she said indignantly. "But..." her voice faltered. "Does that mean you will need to stay all winter?" It was hard to even voice the question._

"_No." He shook his head, glanced at the message again. "In fact, Aragorn does not believe it will even come to battle, at least not yet. He seems to think that my demonstrating that I will come at need, no matter the season, will be sufficient for the moment to convince them not to attack. And in the meantime, his cavalry continues to expand, which will also help."_

_She nodded, tried to push away the dread that was growing. "When will you leave?"_

"_Tomorrow, at first light. I'm only taking my personal guard. Under the circumstances, I don't believe it's necessary to muster more riders. If it comes to battle, the beacons will be lit and Elfhelm will muster the men."_

"_Tomorrow?" She barely heard his comment about the beacons. So soon? _

"_It's not ideal, I know. But the more quickly I get to Gondor, the likelier the Haradrim are to be convinced that I could be there in time to make a difference should they attack, and the sooner I can get back. I do not like being away from Edoras right now."_

_She nodded, her mind already on all the tasks that needed to be done before he and his men left. With effort, she forced back the personal feelings that wanted to flare into panic at the thought of his leaving. She was adjusting, was beginning to find her place in the royal court. But it was so much harder than she'd anticipated. And it was only now, when faced with the thought of his departure, that she realized how much she'd come to depend on him as a defense against the homesickness._

_He'd started to turn away, the parchment still in his hand, when a new thought occurred to her. "Eomer..."_

"_Yes?" he looked up, his mind plainly already on the trip ahead._

"_If this is unlikely to result in a new war..." she hesitated. What if he misunderstood?_

"_What?" there was a hint of impatience in his voice. No wonder, given all he had to do before departing._

_Ask or let it drop. She took a breath. "If battle is unlikely, perhaps I could go with you?" Despite her attempt to sound casual, the words came out rushed, nervous. _

_His face went still, and she hurried on, convinced she knew what his primary concern would be. "I would not delay you – you've said yourself that I ride as well as a saddle-born Eorlingas." She stifled a wince when she heard the words. They sounded more like pleading than she'd wanted them to. Too late now, though._

_He dropped his hand with the parchment, stared at her. And she saw the answer in his eyes. _

_No. She couldn't go._

_Why had she even asked? Having admitted, to herself at least, how desperately she wanted to do so, how much she wanted to see her family – some of whom must surely be in Minas Tirith given the current state of affairs – it was now even harder to face staying. And she'd probably sounded like a fool, as well. _

_She forced a smile, promised herself that she would not cry until he was gone. "Nevermind. I know it's a foolish idea. I'll go let the kitchens know to begin preparing supplies for your journey."_

_She was nearly to the door before he caught up with her. "Lothiriel." He pulled her around to face him, and she had to fight against the instinct to struggle, the desire to flee from him in disappointment and dismay._

"_It's not that I don't want you to go. You must know that." His other hand, the parchment now crumpled, came up to rest on her shoulder. "And it is not a matter of how fast you ride." His gaze was direct, focused on her. "Things are not yet as stable as I might wish them to be in Edoras. There are still those who question me, who question my decisions, even my rule. I do not anticipate trouble, but I believe it would be best if one of us, at least, remains here. That is why I ask you to stay." _

Ask._ He placed a slight emphasis on the word, but it was enough for her to understand. Though he could order her to stay, he would not do so. He would take her with him if she insisted, as foolish as it might be. But he would be disappointed in her. And she desperately didn't want to disappoint him. _

_Struck by that thought, it took her a moment to really process the rest of what he'd said. 'One of us.' He was asking her to stay in order to represent him while he was gone. To rule in his stead, as his mate, his queen._

_Slowly, she nodded, struggled to find the words. It was hard when she was feeling both pride that he trusted her, needed her, that much, as well as some fear at the thought. There was still so much she didn't understand about the Mark. What if she let him down? What if she let their people down? She took a deep breath, then simply nodded. "Then of course I must stay." _

_She saw the relief in his eyes, relief which yet warred with concern for her. He brushed his hands down her arms, linked his hands with hers, the parchment crumpled between them. "Thank you."_

_She forced a smile, looked away from him. Tugged on her hands. "I must really go to the kitchens if you're to have supplies for the journey."_

_He released one of her hands, cupped her chin, forced her to look at him. "Lothiriel..."_

_The concern was still there. She tugged harder. If he didn't let her go, right now, she was going to embarrass herself with tears, something she badly didn't want to do. "I'm fine. But I really do need to go check on plans for your departure." _

_Reluctantly, he released her, his eyes still troubled. She smiled again, hoped it looked vaguely sincere. "I'm fine," she said again, before turning and exiting. _

She sighed, shook herself out of the memory. And so, understanding that he wouldn't always ask it of her, she'd stayed, doing her best to represent him. _'As king and queen, the needs of the Mark will frequently take precedence over our own desires.' _Not for the first time since his departure, she recalled the words he'd spoken to her on their wedding night. He'd been right, but she'd give anything if the first proof of that duty hadn't been being left behind, while he went to Gondor.

She'd met daily with his advisors, half of whom assumed she knew all there was to know about ruling Rohan, while the other half assumed she was an empty headed female who must be pandered to in the absence of the King. To her relief, she'd also met regularly with Elfhelm, whose eored was based in Edoras and was in charge of the city's security. The older man approached her with a mix of respect and practicality that was always reassuring.

He reminded her in some ways of her father. He would no doubt be startled by the idea of being compared to the Prince of Dol Amroth, but the same ...steadiness was there. The same wisdom, the same sharpness of mind.

One of the things she shared with the Marshal was a growing concern over how delayed Eomer was in returning. He'd expected to be gone for no more than a month, six weeks at the most. Eight weeks had now passed, and she saw worry growing in Elfhelm's eyes as his gaze ever more frequently turned south. What had happened to cause the delay?

It wasn't war, that was the one thing they were sure of. If battle had broken out, the beacons would have been lit, and Elfhelm would have mustered the riders and ridden off with them.

But something had obviously happened.

She'd marked the weeks, day by day, growing progressively more excited as the time of his expected return grew nearer, only to have anticipation turn to disappointment, then disappointment to worry, when he didn't return. And now worry was gradually turning to fear. Where was he?

A soft tap came on her door, and she smiled inspite of her anxiety and sadness. Acha, one of the kitchen maids, had taken it on herself to bring Lothiriel tea every morning, and seemed to take pride in arriving at the door not long after Lothiriel awoke, without actually waking her. How the girl managed to know when to bring it was a mystery, but it was one of those small gestures that meant a great deal..

Standing, she crossed the room, opened the door with a smile.

"Good morning, Acha," she said in Rohirric. The girl's smile broadened at hearing the greeting in her own language – or maybe it was at Lothiriel's mangling of it. She could never tell.

Acha placed the tray on a small table near the fire, then gave a quick bow before exiting the room. Lothiriel settled at the table, poured herself a mug of the tea, and tried to plan the day. She simply wouldn't think about what the date was and would keep herself busy. The first part of that would be easy enough, since the Rohirrim never thought about such things – calendars were extremely rare in the Mark. The Rohirrim lived from season to season, new moon to new moon, and generally saw no need to identify any particular day. Even feasts and celebrations were tied to the season and the phases of the moon.

There were Gondorian calendars in Eomer's study – along with one of the Shire – but they were not the norm in the Riddermark, and maybe that wasn't an altogether bad thing, she mused. Perhaps there was something to be said for a life lived in a more relaxed fashion, thinking more of seasons than individual days. She suspected that only she and Elfhelm were truly aware of how late Eomer was in returning, and perhaps that was a blessing for the wives of the men who rode with him.

In terms of the day before her, she could only pray that it would wind up being important primarily because it saw the return of Rohan's king. _Please_, she pleaded to the world at large. _Let him return soon. I miss him more than I would have believed possible._


	2. Chapter 2

Many thanks to those who've reviewed the first part of this. I hope you continue to enjoy it. :) And hopefully, I'll be able to post the other parts a little more quickly, if the site stays up!

* * *

Eomer pulled Firefoot to a halt, stared up at the sky before turning his gaze to the path in front of them. It had been raining hard again for the last two days, ever since they'd been forced to turn around – a steady downpour that had kept them cold, soaked and miserable. They'd been riding mostly over open ground, through the hills that marched alongside the mountains, only occasionally riding through groups of trees and their minimal amount of protective cover. 

Even as dusk approached, though, he could see some breaks in the clouds. They might yet get a respite from the weather..

He pointed to the lightening clouds, saw Eothain nod in comprehension. The other man then looked away, to the left of their current position.

"If I remember correctly, there are a few small caves over there. Too small for us to shelter in," he said quickly in response to Eomer's hopeful look, "but the villagers used to store wood there to dry. Easier than carting it all back to Halifirien at once. If it's still there," he glanced again toward the east, "and the rain really does let up, we might be able to get a fire going."

The wood had still been there, and Eomer sent silent thanks toward to the Gondorian villagers, knowing they'd not begrudge Rohan's king a fire from their stockpile. He'd thank them personally when they rode through the small settlement the next morning. Would also make sure that they still had adequate supplies for the coming winter, that his use of the wood wouldn't place a hardship on them.

They made camp in a reasonably sheltered area between a cliff and a small forest. The ground was still soaked, of course, but at least they were out of the wind. And as they had hoped, the rain had lightened, then stopped.

It felt good to finally feel warm, to begin to feel dry again.

They'd ended up making several fires, enough for all the riders to have a chance to really share the warmth. While the rest of the men gathered at the other fires, apparently attempting to start what sounded like a singing competition, Eothain had joined Eomer at in a more companionable silence at a third fire.

It was Eothain who finally broke that silence. "May I ask you something?"

His tone was hesitant, and Eomer gave him a sharp look. One of his oldest friends, they'd known each other for so long that Eothain was normally comfortable being direct with him, though never disrepectful. He nodded.

"The men and I are wondering…" Eothain hesitated, seeming to choose his words with care. "We're wondering why you didn't just return to Gondor until these rains stop. It's not that we mind riding in wet weather," he added hastily, "nor do we mind the idea of getting home to our families. But even now we don't know if the road will be passable between here and Edoras. Your determination to make the journey seems…" he faltered again, looked away. Tried again. "Have you heard news from the Mark that drives you?" he finally finished.

_Foolish, unwise, showing questionable judgment… _Heat crawled up his face as Eomer thought of the other ways the other man could have finished his query, but nodded slowly to indicate it was a fair question. He was dragging them all over northwestern Gondor in weather not fit for man or beast…he owed them an explanation, should have given it to them earlier.

He hadn't because he wasn't certain how they'd interpret his reasons. Would they understand and sympathize, or think him foolish?

It didn't matter. They still deserved to know why he'd been so determined to leave Minas Tirith, why he hadn't turned back when confronted with the flooding. Apart from Elfhelm, these were his most loyal, trustworthy men.

So he would trust them.

Still, he hesitated, searched for the right way to start. Finally, he said, "You're familiar with some of the differences between our ways and those of Gondor."

Eothain nodded, a confused look settling onto his face.

"One of those differences is how the birth of children is noted." The confusion was growing stronger, but Eomer plunged on. "In Gondor, the date is remembered and much celebrated."

Insult nudged out some of the confusion. "We celebrate the birth of children no less than Gondor, sire."

_Sire. _ Eomer suppressed the smile that tugged at his lips. Eothain only called him that when he was annoyed with him, normally falling back on a lifetime of friendship and calling him by his name – particularly when they were alone.

"I did not suggest otherwise, Eothain. Tell me something." Eomer changed tactics. "What is the date of your birth?"

Eothain gave him a blank look. "The date?"

"Yes. As in the date of the month. The first? The fifteenth?"

A long moment passed. "I have no idea." Eothain finally said slowly. "I was born in late summer, because my mother frequently complained that she had to endure the summer heat with all of her pregnancies. Why?"

"As you said, both we and our friends to the south celebrate the birth of a child. But in Gondor, the date itself is important. It's noted, and then the anniversary of that date is celebrated again each year afterwards," he hesitated, turned his gaze to the fire. "As I understand it, it becomes an opportunity for the friends and family of the person to sort of…" he paused again, struggled with the right words, "...to celebrate the life of the person. Reaffirm the person's gifts and value to the family and community, I guess." Unable to fully explain it, he finally shrugged helplessly. "It's a big event, Eothain. A chance for people to express their love and appreciation for someone. There is feasting, and gifts."

"They _all_ do this? For everyone? Every year?"

Eomer's lips twitched again at the other man's incredulous tone, but he nodded.

"I see." Eothain paused. "No, I don't," he now sounded apologetic. "I still don't understand why a such a custom is driving us northward in such a manner."

"Lothiriel's birthday – as they term the celebration – was today. I'd hoped to be home for it," he said simply.

"I see," Eothain said again slowly.

"She struggles with homesickness," Eomer continued. "Not often, but occasionally. And I thought today might be hard for her."

Eothain was quiet for a long moment. "I'd wondered. She always seems so cheerful. But it must be difficult to move so far away from home. She has much affection for her family, and they for her, do they not?"

Eomer nodded, but before he could speak again, Eothain said, "Eomer, the men are very fond of the queen. She has been nothing but kind to us, and we've seen the difference her presence has made, both for Edoras and for you. We may not understand the concept of celebrating a birth every year, but we would do anything for her. You must know that."

Deeply moved, Eomer managed a smile, but had to swallow before finding his voice. "Even riding hard through autumn floods?"

"Even that."

Silence fell between them, and Eomer turned back to the fire, allowed his thoughts to wander.

He'd only been partially honest with Eothain. While it was true that the primary reason he'd been trying so hard to find a way home was Lothiriel's birthday, it was just as true that he was being drawn there by the woman herself. He missed her, more than he'd expected to. As Third Marshal, he'd frequently missed Eowyn when he'd ridden off for months at a time, but this was a very different kind of longing; it had also given him a new appreciation for how his men felt about leaving their wives and families.

During quiet moments in Gondor, he'd found himself thinking of things to tell her, both serious observations about the situation in the south as well as things more foolish and light-hearted. The latter still surprised him. He'd laughed more in the months since his wedding than in all the years since the death of his mother, a benefit of marriage he'd not been expecting.

He was also concerned for her. He'd known how hard it was for her to stay behind and his respect and admiration for her had only grown when he'd seen how determined she'd been to be cheerful in the face of his departure.

His mind drifted back to the morning he'd left.

"_Eomer?"_

_He looked up at the sound of Lothiriel's voice as she entered his study. She was wearing a dark blue dress he particularly liked on her. He suspected it wasn't a coincidence that she was wearing it this morning._

"_All is in readiness for your departure. Your men are waiting."_

_He nodded, looked at the reports on his desk. He'd spent most of the night trying to resolve as many problems as he could before he left, not wanting to make things any more difficult for her than they were already going to be. Alas, in doing so, he had not been able to spend the evening with her, something he greatly regretted. _

_Too late, now. All he could do was ride for Gondor as fast as possible in hopes of a quick return._

_Standing he walked over to where she was waiting, near the door. Reaching behind her, he closed it, unwilling for anyone to see their farewell._

_She looked puzzled. "The men…"_

"_Will wait," he said, and pulled her to him. Saw her eyes light with surprise and delight. Had she really thought he would make no time for a proper good-bye? _

_Apparently. _

_He tilted her chin up, watched as her gaze drifted down to his mouth, then back up to his eyes. Regretted even more that he'd had to spend the night in his study. _

_Locking one arm around her waist, he tangled the other one in her hair – he loved its softness and scent – drew her closer, and kissed her. Was aware that he was trying to show her everything he was feeling – his pride in her, as well as his frustration at having to leave her, with the kiss._

_When he lifted his head, they were both out of breath. She laid her head on his shoulder and gave an unsteady laugh before looking back up at him._

_There was a mischieveous twinkle in her eyes, though behind the mischief he still saw sadness lurking. Knowing it would do no good to comment on it, that the only thing he could do to remove that look was to return as quickly as possible, he focused instead on the mischief. _

"_Yes?" He cocked his head, raised an eyebrow at her._

_The twinkle grew more pronounced. Turning her head, she glanced around his study, then looked back at him. "It's time for you to leave. I must get started."_

_Knowing he was being baited, he still indulged her. "Started on what?"_

_Her smile was a bit impish. "Redecorating. I thought I'd begin in here, perhaps with your desk. I've been told where some roots grow that will make a lovely pink stain for it."_

_Horrified, he stared at her for a long moment, then started to laugh, was unsurprised when she joined him. _

_Then he called her bluff. "You may redecorate as much as you like, provided the outside of the hall remains golden." If teasing him in such a manner somehow made his departure easier for her, she could threaten to paint all of Edoras if she wanted. Could, in fact, actually do so. It could always be repainted. _

"_What? You do not wish to return to 'The Pink Hall'?_

_He laughed again, but could not quite control a wince at the thought. She smiled in response, then reached up, placed her hand on his cheek. "Fear not. I would never do such a thing."_

_He turned his head, kissed her palm. "I know."_

_The smile faded. "Be safe."_

"_I will." _

_He lowered his head, kissed her one final time, then reluctantly stepped back. _

_She walked with him out of the hall, watched as he mounted Firefoot. He looked up at her, saw her smile at him, a very private smile. Saw, too, the tears she was fighting. He held her gaze for a long moment before turning, giving the order for his men to ride out._

_A long while later, he turned, glanced back at Edoras from the plains of Rohan. And saw her still standing there, in front of Meduseld, watching his departure. As Eowyn used to do. It had been a long while since anyone had done that for him, and moved, he lifted his arm in a final salute, even while doubting she could see it. And damned the Haradrim for forcing him to leave her while their relationship was still so new and uncertain._

Eomer shook his head to clear it of the memories, then smiled at the thought of her threats to redecorate. He was quite ready to be home again, even to a pink desk.

The rain held off until mid-morning the following day, something all the men were grateful for. And even when it started again, their good mood lasted. It was amazing what a single night's sleep in drier conditions had accomplished, Eomer mused. Or maybe it was that they were finally just over a day's ride from Edoras.

He also knew that, thanks to Eothain, the reason for their speed was making its way through the guard. He'd been touched when one of the youngest riders had approached him, asked with some puzzlement if they should have gifts of some sort for the queen. Eomer had reassured him that no gifts would be necessary, then tucked away the memory of the question having been asked to share with Lothiriel. He thought she'd like knowing of his men's baffled determination to understand the nature of a birthday, and their desire to make it special for her.

If only they could get home without any additional delays.

They stopped for a midday meal at the base of another cliff, hoping for at least partial shelter from the rain.

The horses were grazing near by as the men prepared to have a hurried meal of dried meat and cheese when Eomer heard thunder.

Noting that it had startled the horses, that indeed, they were starting to run, he started toward them, only to hesitate at the sound of more thunder above them. How much harder could it rain?

Then his gaze was pulled upward, and for a brief moment he froze with disbelief.

It looked as if most of the mountain above them was coming down on top of them. Or rather him, as in an effort to stretch his legs, he'd wandered farther from his men than he'd realized, closer to the mountain.

Even as he started to run, he saw that his men were running as well – back towards him. How did they think they were going to protect him from the side of a mountain? Furious, he motioned to them. "Run, you fools!"

It was hard to know where to go. Directly in front of them was a small copse of trees; on either side of it was meadows. The horses had disappeared into the latter, but which was really best? If they aimed for the open areas, it might be easier to run, but there would be nothing to slow the movement of the mud and rocks bearing down on them. The trees would be no match for the force of what was behind and above them, of course, but a few of the biggest ones might check the movement of the rockslide a little. Mightn't they?

Some of the men were veering off toward the meadows, but Eomer headed for the trees. Their time was up, the roar was too close behind them. Any moment now, he'd be knocked down and then crushed by rocks, buried by mud.

Desperate, he threw himself into the trees, knew immediately it had been a mistake. The trees were old, many of them already dying. The rocks would snap them like kindling. And the underbrush was thick and heavy, and too difficult to maneuver through. He should have taken his chances in the open field.

He stumbled, caught himself, plunged on. There was a glancing blow against his helmet, a rock flying at the front edge of the mass, the first indication that the side of the mountain was a catching up with him.

He wasn't going to make it.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Again, thanks to those who've reviewed this. I hope you continue to enjoy it. :)

* * *

Lothiriel pushed back from Eomer's desk, wearily rubbed her eyes. It seemed desperately important to his advisors that she read their reports, but for the life of her she couldn't understand why. Dry and dreary, they very seldom told her anything of actual interest about the Riddermark and its people. Indeed, she'd started to suspect that the reports were important primarily as a source of pride for the men who'd written them, since reading and writing were not common skills in Rohan. Beyond that, perhaps they had no purpose at all. Maybe Eomer didn't even read them. She would ask him when he returned.

During the first few weeks of his absence, she'd taken some comfort in the task. Being in his study, doing what she could to fill his role, had pushed away some of the loneliness. Had helped fill the days.

It was no longer helping.

If she had misjudged the homesickness she'd feel, she'd also misjudged how difficult it would be to form new friends. It had never occurred to her before that the friends she'd left behind in Dol Amroth had known her all her life, had simply accepted that she was royal. Such things didn't matter much when you were seven.

But it did when you were an adult. There were a few delightful and kind women she was gradually becoming acquainted with, but they were hesitant around her, and it had slowly dawned on her that they were reluctant to be seen as trying to curry the new queen's favor. And at the other end of the spectrum were women who made it plain they wished to be considered a friend of the queen – regardless of what they thought of Lothiriel personally.

She was too much of an optimist by nature to believe that things would always be so difficult. Sooner or later, she'd figure out how to truly establish relationships with the women she admired.

But at the moment, it was difficult and lonely, particularly when she was starting to feel abandoned by her husband.

It was no doubt an unfair thought, but was an honest one.

Frustrated, she shoved the parchments off the desk, felt some satisfaction in watching them scatter. Why had he done this to her? She knew how to supervise a royal household, had participated in a very limited fashion in the ruling of Dol Amroth, particularly when the men had all gone off to war. But what did she know of ruling Rohan? The people were respectful toward her, but if she had to make a hard decision, one that could not be put off "until after the king returns" – her favorite phrase these days – what then? Would they follow her? Why should they, when she was still so unknown to them?

They'd been married for just over three months when he'd been called to Gondor; he'd now been gone over two. Not a good balance.

For the first time, she allowed herself to wonder if there was more to this trip than just a crisis in the south. Despite his response to her before he left, perhaps he _had_ asked her to stay here because he didn't want her with him? Perhaps he didn't return because he didn't want to, didn't want to be with her?

No. She scrubbed her face again. That was a foolish thought. Thus far, nearly the only thing that had felt like a complete success in her life in Rohan was her relationship with Eomer. It was qualified, in that she didn't precisely know how he felt about her, nor, for that matter, how she felt about him, but she would still dare call their relationship itself successful. She knew he liked her, enjoyed her company. He desired her, that was certain. And had always approached her in such a way as to guarantee she desired him in return.

Maybe it wasn't love he felt for her, only responsibility. But their relationship was solid enough, strong enough, to be termed a success. She was sure of it.

She shook her head, tried to clear the doubts away. He'd done nothing to deserve such distrust from her.

And regardless of his feelings for her, he would never have used their relationship as an excuse to delay a return to Edoras. His love for his people and sense of duty was too strong.

She was still being affected by her birthday, she realized. It had been harder than she'd expected it to be, even in her most depressed moments. She'd spent the entire day wanting someone to know, to remember, and then feeling in turns crushed that no one did and angry at herself for allowing it to matter.

Even Beril had forgotten, and that had hurt more than anything else, though Lothiriel had known it wasn't deliberate. The woman was aging, and with no calendars to remind her, it wasn't surprising that she'd forgotten. But it had still stung.

Annoyed with herself all over again, Lothiriel stood, began to collect the papers. She would indulge in no more self-pity. She was the queen of Rohan, of the house of Dol Amroth. She would continue to do all she could to learn as much as possible about the Mark, would strive to be the best queen she could be, the best wife she could be.

If her husband ever came home.

There was a knock on the door, and she suppressed a sigh. Another of Eomer's advisors wanting to know how much wool Eomer would be expecting to sell to Gondor next spring, or some such thing. As if she would know. Another question to be added to the list of things to ask him when he returned. Her mouth curved with bitter humor at the thought of greeting him with it.

"Come," she said, pasting a smile on her face. Eomer had to return soon – before she went mad and murdered most of his council.

To her relief, it was Elfhelm who stepped through the door. He was easily her favorite of the men who advised and worked closely with Eomer. He was so very down to earth, wise in the ways and needs of Rohan. And he didn't expect her to know all there was to know. When she didn't know something, he would explain it to her without making her feel like a fool.

A good friend of Eomer's, he'd been her staunchest ally while the King had been gone.

His face was tired, lined with worry. He bowed, then gave her a sharp look. "How are you?"

"I'm fine." Relatively.

He didn't believe her; that was plain. But he didn't press the issue. Instead he looked down, noted the rest of the parchments on the floor. "Breeze blow through?" he asked as he started to help her collect them.

He wasn't precisely smiling when he said it, but there was humor in his tone, and she smiled in response, even as a blush crept her face. She suspected he knew perfectly well why they were on the floor.

But when he stood up again, all traces of humor were gone from his face. He walked over to stand, staring, at a large map on the wall next to the desk. Lothiriel joined him, a little unnerved by his silence.

Slowly, she reached up, traced her finger down the map between Edoras and Minas Tirith.

"He should be back by now," the Marshal's voice was heavy, discouraged.

"He didn't know exactly how long it would take," Lothiriel reminded him. "Maybe something unexpected happened." An argument she didn't really believe, but felt compelled to make.

"In which case he would have sent word. He expected to be back at the absolute latest a full two weeks ago."

"Then perhaps he's in no hurry to return." As soon as the words were out, she regretted them. She had no business sharing her private doubts in such a fashion.

Elfhelm turned to stare at her, but embarrassed, Lothiriel refused to look away from the map.

"If you truly believe he's capable of putting his own preferences ahead of the needs of the Mark, then you've learned nothing of him during your time here, your majesty."

It was the sharpest he'd ever spoken to her, and shame at the deserved rebuke washed over her. Desperately wishing she'd kept her thoughts to herself, she tried to think of a response. Finally realized there was only one way to undo the damage.

She forced herself to look the other man in the eye. His were chilly.

"You're right," she said quietly. "I should not have spoken such a thing. Forgive me."

The coolness left his eyes, was replaced by compassion. "You should not have been thinking such a thing," he corrected gently. "Eomer didn't want to go at all – he didn't want to be away from either the Mark or you, and only his commitment to King Elessar made him do so."

Uncertain how to respond, Lothiriel nodded, then looked back toward the map.

"I've seen him smile more in the months since your nuptials than in all the years I've known him. Whatever is keeping him away, it is not his choice." Frowning, Elfhelm reached up to touch a point on the map, as if measuring. "Something is not right," he finally said quietly. "And it's time we learn what it is."

At this, she looked over at him, a questioning look on her face.

"With your permission, I'd like to send a party to Minas Tirith, to find out what's happened." Anticipating her question, he added, "I have not recommended it before because if Eomer is fine, just delayed, he's likely to be angry at having been followed." Another silence. "But I do not believe he would have stayed away this long unless something unexpected has occurred."

She stared at the map for a long moment, thought of all the leagues between Edoras and Minas Tirith, all the possibilities of what could have gone wrong. None of them were good.

While pleased by the Marshal's insistence that Eomer hadn't wanted to be away from her, it made thinking about the King's delayed return harder. It was easier to feel abandoned and angry than to yield to fear.

"Send the riders."

* * *

It was dark and cold. And wet, Eomer amended. But where was he? An attempt to feel in front of him with his hand revealed that he was also trapped.

Fighting panic, he tried to move, inhaled sharply when a multitude of aches made themselves known – then choked when mud tried to come in with the air. He spit it out, forced himself to take another shallow breath, his mouth barely open. He could breathe. He could breathe, he repeated to himself, trying to stave off the fear that would cause him to thrash around and worsen his situation.

Rocks. Mud. A memory came back, of the side of a mountain coming down on them, and he closed his eyes. He was alive. At the realization of what he'd survived, at least initially, some of the panic subsided. He could have already been enroute to the halls of his fathers; the fact that he wasn't was a decided improvement. He wasn't ready to die. He still had to celebrate Lothiriel's birthday with her. Late, but they would celebrate.

He was mostly on his back – how had that happened? And turned slightly to his left side. Cautiously, he tested his limbs. He could move his toes, and despite a feeling of weight on his legs and their being twisted into an uncomfortable – but not unnatural – position, there was no agonizingly sharp bite to indicate a broken bone. Bruises, oh, yes. But no broken bones, no paralysis. Next came his arms. His left arm was well and truly trapped. There was a lot of pain there, what felt like even more scrapes and bruises than on his legs, but again, no broken bones and he could both feel and move his fingers. Barely, in terms of space.

His right arm was trapped above his head, against his helmet – had he thrown it up at the last moment in an attempt to protect his head? Perhaps. The position felt right.

Afraid of dislodging more mud and rocks, he began carefully to test that arm's movement and range, was grateful to discover that it was much less trapped than his other limbs, if just as bruised. Shifting, he felt around, and began to understand that he was trapped between the rocks and a mammoth tree. The tree's branches were providing an air pocket of sorts as well as some protection from the rocks; the rocks, which must have crashed down around him before he fell, were preventing the tree from crushing him.

He'd been very, very fortunate.

Feeling above his face, he discovered he could shove back some of the smaller branches of the tree, and did so, curious as to how deeply he was buried. If he was under ten feet of rock and mud, all that his good fortune meant was that he would be awake for a while before dying, as they'd never find him him in time. He grimaced at the thought.

As he shoved back the branches, he discovered a different danger as a new torrent of small rocks and mud fell on his face.

Choking and gasping, desperate, he yanked his right arm completely free, ignoring the pain that shuddered through him, and frantically wiped the debris away.

Lesson learned – moving around too much could kill him if the next time he did something that caused the larger rocks to shift.

Closing his eyes, he rested for a moment, waited for his heart to settle.

Gradually, it occurred to him that he was breathing fresher air, and he looked up, saw a lighter darkness than he'd expected above where he was lying. Shadows. Relief rushed through him. He could see the shape of larger boulders above him, twisted tree trunks. Some light must be getting through, then. He wasn't hopelessly buried.

But with that thought came another. What of his men? Had they survived? Any of them?

Closing his eyes again, he concentrated on listening. Was that shouts in the distance? Or just the results of desperate longing?

Mostly what he could hear was an odd groaning, creaking noise, and when he identified the sound, anxiety moved through him again. The rocks and trees were still shifting on their own without any help from him, which meant they could move at any time and finish crushing him.

He banished the thought. For the moment, he was alive and relatively uninjured. It was enough.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Thanks again for your lovely reviews. You all are super. :) This is fairly short, but the next part will be coming along quite soon. I promise.

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Eomer wasn't aware of having slept until he awoke. Cold. He was so damned cold. An involuntary shudder moved through him, and he realized that he could die from exposure just as easily as he could from being crushed.

How long had he been asleep? There were still shadows above him, but was that because it was night, and he'd already spent the best part of the day trapped, or was it simply that the grey daylight they'd been having couldn't pierce the mud and trees?

He tried to swallow, and grimaced. His mouth was dry, and had a foul taste from the mud. It was ironic that he was parched by thirst when rain had triggered the rock slide.

Wearily, he closed his eyes again, pondered trying to shift the rocks and branches that held him in their grasp. The creaking and groaning he'd heard earlier had subsided, hopefully indicating that the greatest danger of being crushed had passed. Should he perhaps try to shift some of the smaller rocks near him? See if he could possibly claw his way free? Or would that simply cause them to start moving again? What was the greatest danger – to risk triggering movement that would crush him, or death by thirst and exposure if no one came?

That thought brought grief, because if no one came it meant all of his men had perished. If even one man had survived and was capable of the journey, villagers from Halifirien would shortly arrive to hunt for him. Or his body.

If none of his men had survived, how long would it take before someone figured out what had happened? Which direction had the horses gone? Forty riderless horses would alert the villagers, assuming the horses had gone in that direction. But would the villagers figure it out in time?

How long could he survive here, cold and wet? If he didn't survive, how long would it be before word reached Elfhelm and Lothiriel in Edoras? And Eowyn in Ithilien?

Thoughts of their grief renewed his frustration, and he reached up, started to feel above him. Perhaps if he were careful, he could safely shift some of the branches and smaller rocks, and possibly devise an escape.

Then he heard it. Voices. Too indistinct for him to identify, but it didn't really matter. If they were his men, the villagers, or at least friends of Rohan, they'd help him; if they were foes, he'd hardly be in greater danger than he was already in.

"Hello!" he shouted, was frustrated when all that came out was a croak. His mouth was simply too dry. He tried to swallow, to clear his throat, before attempting to shout again. It came out a little louder, but it still wasn't going to be enough for them to hear him.

Grabbing one of the smaller rocks he'd dislodged, he pounded it against the large boulder he was trapped against, in a rhythic pattern. Was rewarded for his efforts by a hail of small stones falling, bouncing off his helmet. That answered the question of whether he could have safely freed himself.

He winced at both the noise and the vibration. His head, like the rest of him, ached abominably, and he wondered again how long he'd been unconscious before he'd first awakened.

But it was enough.

"Eomer? Can you hear me?"

It was Eothain, too upset to bother with formalities, and relief once again made Eomer weak.

"I'm here." His voice was still faint, so he again tapped on the rock, deliberately choosing the one that appeared to be the most stable.

"Thank all the benevolent gods of Middle Earth," he heard the younger man mutter. "Where? Keep talking."

"I'm beneath a large tree, trapped between it and the rocks."

"I think I see it. Keep talking. How are you? Where are you injured?"

"Not seriously," Eomer croaked. "Bruises, mostly."

There was no response this time, until Eomer saw branches above him shift, revealing the shadowed face of his friend. The dimness above him was the shadow from the trees, he realized. It must still be daylight.

There were tears on Eothain's cheeks, but his voice was steady as he gazed down at him. "You know, there are easier ways than this of avoiding being king."

Eomer choked back a laugh, ignored the wetness on his own face. His smile faded as he asked the question he most wanted – and dreaded – an answer to. "How are the rest of the men?"

"All fine."

Eothain disappeared from view, and a moment later, Eomer heard more voices, and realized the younger man must have gone to tell the others where he was.

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It took the better part of the afternoon to free him. Eothain had refused to take any chances on the rocks shifting, insisting on the careful movement of any of them that were small enough or unstable enough to pose a danger.

But finally, Eothain reached down, offered Eomer his hand. Eomer grabbed it, allowed himself to be hauled up, swearing when his muscles cramped and his bruises throbbed.

Wearily, he leaned against the tree, waited for the trembling in his limbs to stop. Eothain shouted at someone, and suddenly Eomer was conscious of a blanket – a dry blanket – being draped around him, of a skin of water being pressed into his hands.

Confused, he looked up, saw men he didn't know – but who'd obviously participated in his rescue – standing in a half circle around him, along with a few members of his guard.

"Some of the riders went to the village for help," Eothain murmured.

He look a long drink of the cool water, felt his throat rejoice, before he looked again at the villagers again, met their eyes. "I'm grateful to you," he said simply.

They nodded, then the oldest of them motioned away from where they were resting. "If you're up to it, we should leave this area, Majesty. More of the mountain could come down."

Fear prickled, and Eomer nodded, resisted looking up at the mountain. It would be a while – a long while – before he felt entirely comfortable too near a mountain.

But movement was slow. He was still stiff, his bruised muscles complaining at having been in such a cramped position for so long.

He gritted his teeth, moved through the rocks, accepted Eothain's help when it was necessary. As he'd expected, his left arm was in the worst condition. He suspected that some of the wetness he was feeling was probably blood, though he didn't seem to be bleeding profusely from any particular wound.

Trying to take his mind off his discomfort, he turned to Eothain. "Where are the rest of the men?"

"The men from the village said it would be safer not to have all of us trying to help free you – there was too great a chance of the rocks shifting. And since the villagers have more experience with rock slides than we do…"

Eomer nodded in comprehension. "The men are all fine? No injuries?"

"They're fine," Eothain repeated, apparently unsurprised by Eomer's need for reassurance on that point. "Minor scrapes and bruises. None as bad as yours – you got the worst of it, because you were closest to the mountain when it came down. Everyone else escaped."

His tone was full of chagrin, and when Eomer looked at him more closely, he saw both that and guilt.

"This was not your fault, Eothain. There was nothing you could do."

The other man gave a sharp jerk of his head. "It just rankles, that's all."

"Not even you can be expected to protect me from a mountain," Eomer said dryly, then let his own tone sharpen. "And if I ever again see you putting your life in danger to try and rescue me from something you have no hope of success in, I'll banish you to Mordor."

Eothain obviously wanted to protest, but settled for giving an abrupt nod. "Yes, sire."

Eomer changed the subject. "What of the horses?"

"All fine as well, if a bit skittish. They bolted almost before the slide started – instinct perhaps. If we'd been on them, we would be been completely out of danger. They've all been rounded up – none of them went far."

They reached an open area, free of the rocks and mud, and Eomer found most of the rest of his guard and the horses. They wore looks of relief, and not a few had tears on their faces. Understanding that it was out of genuine, personal affection for him, not just because he was their king, humbled him, and he took the time to greet them all individually.

The rest of the men had ridden closer to Halifirien, and when they arrived, he understood why. They'd set up his tent. He hadn't bothered having them do so over the past few nights. It had seemed pointless in light of the soggy ground and the rain -- the tent would get soaked and muddy, and thus be harder to put up and take down. He'd also felt a little guilty at the thought of sleeping in a tent while his men suffered in the rain, rain he was determined to keep dragging them through.

But he had no such qualms now. He was wet, cold, and sore, and wanted only to strip and get some sleep.

And by late tomorrow, if the rain held off and they made good time, he would be sleeping in a warm, dry, bed. His bed. It was a pleasant thought.

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Rain. Eomer wearily wiped the water from his face, glanced around at his men. There was no conversation, no idle jokes about the scenery to pass the time. They weren't even bothering to curse the weather, and the fact that they were only hours from Edoras didn't seem to be making much difference.

He should say something, find some way to encourage them, but such leadership was beyond him at the moment. How much longer could it rain?

They'd had a respite for part of the night, but it had started again before dawn, and as they moved further north, the accompanying chill grew worse.

Exhausted, cold, miserable, and aching with bruises and scrapes all over his body, there had no doubt been times in his life when he'd been in greater physical discomfort. But at the moment, he couldn't rmember any of them.

Even crossing the Mering Stream, knowing that they were at least back in the Mark, hadn't helped. He'd been worried that it, too, would be too flooded for them to cross, but they'd had an advantage there in that the water flowed through a wide plain. Currently, the border between Rohan and Gondor was more like a very large pond than a stream, but at least they'd managed to cross it.

It began to rain even harder, and shivering with cold, he hunched down in the saddle, thought of his chambers in Meduseld, of being warm and dry, with a hot meal in front of him.

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Lothiriel took another sip of tea, looked around the great hall. Perhaps she should go back to her chambers until it was time for the evening meal. She'd been spending a great deal of time sitting at one of the long tables in the hall, convinced that it was good for her to be as visible as possible to anyone who wandered in, in part so that that people knew she was available, and in part out of hopes that she might begin deepening her relationships with some of the women of the court.

But currently the hall was empty, and sitting by herself felt foolish. The rain had finally forced even the most social to stay snug in their own homes, close to their fires, and she couldn't blame them.

As she stood to leave, the door of the hall burst open, and she turned, alarmed to see Elfhelm coming toward her, hurry in his stride. For a moment, she could only think that his speed was due to some crisis, and she stiffened with fear for Eomer.

And then she took a closer look at the Marshal's face, full of relief, and knew what he was going to say before he said it.

"Eomer's standard has been spotted on the road – they should be here within the hour. I'm riding out to meet them, but you'll probably want to warn the kitchen."

Unable to speak, she nodded, then watched as he abandoned all protocol to turn and bolt from the hall. Weak with relief, she leaned against the table.

He was home.


	5. Chapter 5

After consulting with the kitchen staff, Lothiriel had wrapped in a warm cloak and stepped out on the porch of the great hall to wait, uncaring if she got wet or the guards were amused by her action. She was relieved Eomer was home, and didn't care who knew it.

When she'd first stepped outside, she'd been able to see them riding across the plains, but they were now too close to the gates to be visible from her position. Impatient, she turned her gaze to the road coming up through Edoras, more than ready to see them ride around the bend and into Meduseld's courtyard.

People were coming out of their homes, into the rain and mud, to welcome the king home, a sight that cheered her. Of course, some of them were the families of the men who rode with Eomer, but the enthusiasm was still a marked change from the despondency which had hung over the city for the past few days.

She heard the horses before she saw them, and smiled at the sound, a smile that grew broader as the riders swept around the curve in the road and into the courtyard.

Eomer was in front, between Eothain and Elfhelm, surrounded by the rest of his guard as well as the men Elfhelm had sent out. She barely saw them, her attention fixed on the man she'd missed so much. Even as they brought their horses to a stop, she was moving forward, down the steps.

A crowd was gathering around them, made up of families of the riders, his advisors, stableboys waiting to take the horses. But her eyes never left Eomer.

Something was wrong. He was holding himself too stiffly in the saddle, and his left arm was tucked too close to his body.

She halted before she reached the bottom of the steps. She wanted to push forward, demand to know what was wrong. But there was no point in adding to the mayhem around him. He'd never hear her anyway.

As he prepared to dismount, he nodded in response to something Eothain said, but without looking at the man – his eyes were on the crowd around him, moving, watching, looking. And then his gaze moved up, met her eyes, stayed steady.

He'd been looking for her.

In his eyes, she saw relief and gladness, but also weariness and pain. And then she became aware of what was going on around him. His advisors were already clamoring for his attention, with some demanding to know what had delayed him while others were asking more directly about the situation in Gondor, and there were yet others who were starting in with a series of questions about things needing his attention in Edoras.

Were they mad? The man was cold, wet, and clearly in pain, and they were making demands on him?

"Stop!" Normally soft spoken, she was angry enough that her voice carried throughout the courtyard. All eyes turned toward her, and she made full use of it, pinning the six men currently vying for Eomer's attention with a glare that had caused even Gondorian noblemen to back down. "Have you lost your senses? He's wet, cold, hungry and obviously injured, and you would have him sit in the rain listening to your bleating?"

Four of them had the grace to look ashamed, and one turned to Eomer in consternation, as if noticing for the first time the way the king was holding himself. But the sixth advisor, a man called Botulf whom she didn't particularly care for under the best of circumstances, was simply furious with her for the interruption.

So be it. She wasn't known for her temper, had learned at an early age to control it. But she didn't suffer fools gladly, and watching them hammer at Eomer had unleashed it. Turning her eyes back to him, she moved down the rest of the steps, unsurprised when the crowd at the foot of them parted for her.

He had dismounted, was leaning against Firefoot very much as if he'd used his final resources of strength to do so. What was wrong with him?

Without looking away from him, she addressed his advisors. "Gentlemen, perhaps Eothain would be willing to debrief you – in the great hall – about events in Gondor. But I believe the King needs to be tended to by a healer."

At that Eomer straightened, gave Firefoot a pat, then stepped away from the horse, as if needing to prove that he could. And perhaps he did. But when he spoke, his voice sounded weak to her ears. "No. I need no healers. But dry clothes and a warm meal would not go amiss."

She stepped up to him. "Then you shall have them."

He turned to her, managed a smile as his eyes met hers again. "I'd greet you properly," he murmured, "but there's no point in two of us being covered with mud."

She blushed as she realized that despite his physical condition, he was referring to kissing her – in front of all Edoras, no less – but she smiled back at him, a smile that faded as she noted the pallor of his skin. She moved closer to him, to his right side, and wrapped her arm around him. "Mud washes away."

"It does," he agreed. Slowly, as if the movement hurt, he extended his arm around her shoulders, pulled her to him and pressed a kiss on the top of her head.

They started up the stairs, and she realized that he was leaning on her more than she'd even anticipated, though part of the reason she'd wrapped her arm around him was so that he could do so if he needed to.

He stepped onto the porch with a soft groan, as if the stairs had taxed what was left of his strength, but took the time to nod to the door wardens. The great doors were already opened, and even as they moved into the warmth of the great hall, she felt a shudder move through him.

Was he injured? Or ill?

She walked with him to their chambers, but when he paused as if to sit down at the table in the sitting room, she shook her head and led him into the bed chamber, where the tub she'd ordered as soon as she'd known he was home waited.

He stared at the steaming water for a long moment before turning to her, his eyes glazed with pain, exhaustion, and gratitude. He hesitated, as if he wanted to say something but couldn't quite figure out how to get the words out, then simply sat down in the chair next to the tub with a sigh.

Reaching up with just his right arm, he began to remove his helmet, and it was immediately apparent that it was going to be difficult for him to manage.

Without a word, she stepped over to him, pulled it carefully off. It was a new helmet, made for him after he'd been crowned king, and the dents and scratches in it told their own story, one that made her stomach churn.

Later. She'd ask for the details later.

She knelt before him, began to remove his greaves, the armour protecting his lower legs. And felt him touch her forehead.

When she glanced up, he was frowning. "That is not for you to do. Call for Eothain, or I'll do it myself in a moment."

Refusing to be insulted by the comment, she went back to removing the armour. "Eothain is busy distracting your advisors. I'm here, and completely competent to assist you. And at the moment, you don't look capable of stopping me."

He had no response to that. She finished removing his greaves, then pulled off his boots before reaching for his gauntlets. The right one wasn't a problem, but he flinched when she reached for the left, before she'd even touched it.

"I'll be careful," she said gently as she started unbuckling the gauntlet. Keeping her touch as light and slow as possible, she looked back up at him. "Is there any chance the arm is broken?"

He shook his head. "No. I had the armour off last night."

Last night. That meant that whatever was wrong with him had happened at least a day earlier.

She finished removing the gauntlet, then started on the rest of the armour that could be removed while he was sitting. He was still shivering, despite the warmth of the room, but was also beginning to relax as more of the heavy pieces were placed on the floor.

"You'll have to stand up for me to remove the rest."

He nodded, then slowly did so, and with his arms now free of the armour's weight, was able to help her with some of the buckles and fastenings on the breastplate.

Once the armour was off, she helped him out of the mail that he wore under it, before turning to the clothes that he wore under the mail. They were soaked through, and filthy. Normally, the armour and mail provided a little protection from the elements, but not this time.

Biting her tongue to prevent herself from demanding answers, she eased him out of the tunic and undershirt, and then just stared in horror. He was literally covered with bruises and scrapes, including places that were seeping blood where it looked as if he'd simply been scraped raw. As expected, the left arm was the worst.

"Eomer…what happened?" Unable to keep the distress out of her voice, she met his eyes, wished for a moment that she was a shield maiden, could somehow ride out to avenge him for the injuries.

Foolish thoughts.

He shivered again, and she shook her head. First things first. There would be time for answers later. She began to ease his leggings down, blushing a little as she did so despite several months of marriage. She distracted herself from the intimacy of the task by wondering if she'd find the same damage on his legs.

Yes.

Her lips pressed together in a grim line, she moved back, allowed him to step out of the leggings. He eased into the tub with a sigh, then grimaced as the scraped areas encountered the hot water.

She pulled the chair a little closer to him, reached for a soft cloth. Dipping it in the water, she began wiping the mud off his face. Watched as a flush appeared.

He batted at her hand. "I can bathe myself," he muttered.

"I never doubted it. But those scrapes need to be properly cleaned and then treated, so you can either let me help or we can call a healer in here." Against her will, a tremble came into her voice. "Let me. Please." He gave her a sharp look, and she looked away. Dipping the cloth into the water again, she took a breath before continuing, forced her voice to steady. "I've missed you," she admitted, not meeting his eyes. "And been worried these past few days."

He closed his eyes, sighed. "I'm sorry for that."

With hands that still trembled, she resumed wiping his face, noting that being out of the wet clothes and into the warm water seemed to be serving its purpose – he was no longer shivering. Moving down to his shoulders, she finally asked, "Tell me what happened. Who did this to you?"

His lips curved in a humorless smile. "Not a 'who', but a 'what'. I was caught in a rockslide triggered by the rain."

She froze, stared at him. "What?"

"A rockslide, triggered by the rain."

A rockslide. The bruises and scrapes suddenly no longer seemed so severe. How had he survived?

Noticing that she'd stopped wiping him, he reached out, gently touched her cheek. "I'm fine. Sore, but fine."

Helplessly, she stared at him. "But how? How could you have survived such a thing?"

"I was trapped between a large tree and some of the first rocks that fell. The rocks prevented the tree from crushing me; the tree prevented the rocks from doing so while its branches provided an air pocket of sorts."

He sounded matter of fact about it. How could he be so calm? She looked away from him, tried to take a steadying breath. He could so easily have died. Would never have come home. Her stomach twisted, and she swallowed against the nausea that threatened.

"Rie." She looked up, startled. He'd never before called her by the shortened version of her name that her family used.

He cupped her cheek, kept his eyes steady on hers. "I'm fine. There's no point in thinking about what might have been."

She nodded, understood that he didn't want to see tears. Squeezing out the cloth, she resumed wiping him down, steadfastly refusing to think about his body trapped between rocks and a tree. Crushed.

He sighed, relaxed again. "It's so good to be warm."

Searching for humor, she said, "You're still wet, though."

Accepting her effort at lightening the moment, he looked at her, a twinkle in his eye. "A valid observation. But it's with hot, clean water, which makes all the difference."

She smiled, wiped further down his chest. "Your mid section isn't as badly bruised."

"No. The armour made more of a difference there, I think. It's mostly my limbs, particularly the left arm."

"And yet no broken bones."

"No."

"You were very fortunate."

"I was. Not least because my men were able to judge where I would have fallen, and now I'm home, in a warm bath, being tended by you."

Unsure how to respond, she nodded. "If you'll sit forward a bit, I'll wash your back for you."

His eyes twinkled again. "There's an offer I can't refuse. I'll have to return the favor sometime, though."

Her stomach flipped at that, and she wondered how long it would be until he felt recovered enough to make love to her. She'd missed him in many ways.

Banishing the thought, she turned to his back. There were bruises here as well, though like his chest area, they weren't as severe as those on his arms and legs.

When he'd leaned back against the edge of the tub again, she stood, went over to the fire. Pouring more hot water into a small basin, she carried it back to where she was sitting. "I want completely clean water for bathing the scrapes on your arm."

He nodded, carefully moved his left arm so it lay along the edge of the tub. She began to gently clean the raw places, wincing in sympathy at his hiss of breath. He'd have more scars from this, to add to the rest of his impressive collection.

Once it was clean, she began to smooth salve on the scrapes, watched him grit his teeth as it stung. "I'm sorry," she murmured.

He nodded, then shifted, picked up the original cloth she'd been using, and began wiping down his legs, apparently as a way of distracting himself from the sting of the salve.

When she'd finished, she sat back, looked at him. "The healers should still look at your arm. I don't know whether it's better to bind the wounds or not."

He yawned, looked down at his arm, nodded. "It will be fine tonight. The bleeding has stopped, and if the healers start examining me, I'll never get to sleep."

Her lips curved at his sulky tone. "A very good point. Why don't you finish bathing, and I'll go see about a hot meal for you. Then you can rest."

He nodded, closed his eyes.

She'd half expected someone to have already brought him a meal, was a little annoyed that they hadn't.

The annoyance was mollified somewhat when she discovered that no one had told the kitchen staff the king was injured and would be eating in his chambers – they'd expected him to appear in the hall when he was hungry, and the cook was distressed when Lothiriel told her otherwise. As a result of the need to reassure them that he would be fine after a good night's rest, it took longer than she'd intended to get back to him.

But with the meal finally waiting on the table in the sitting room, she stepped back into his bed chamber, then paused, stared. Oh, my.

He was out of the tub, stretched fully out on the skins in front of the fire in a completely relaxed position on his back, one arm thrown above his head.. Totally nude, he was sound asleep.

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A/N: Thanks again for your reviews. Things will get more interesting in the next chapter, I promise. ;) 

Rabid Cow: Thanks for your criticism. I'm aware that I occasionally use incomplete sentences, particularly in very past faced or action scenes. Such bending of the traditional rules of grammar is allowed in fiction and is also part of my voice. However, I do NOT believe either of those things are license to write in a confusing or incoherent manner that puts readers off. I'm still trying to find the balance between what comes naturally to me and can be very effective, and what simply winds up being annoying. For that reason, I very much appreciate your comments.

Also...I always intended for the men Elfhelm sent out to meet up with Eomer on the road (and thus not play a significant role in the story) and was concerned that it would come across as something I set up and then didn't follow through on. I decided to go ahead with it because I believed it was a reasonable course of action for Elfhelm to have recommended.

Thanks again for your comments. They're appreciated.


	6. Chapter 6

Lothiriel's throat went dry, and for a moment she simply stood there, indulging in the sight of him. He was home. Injured, but not seriously. He was home.

Walking softly, she crossed the room, knelt beside him. He'd washed his hair after she left, and it was spread around him in golden tangles. She reached out, touched the long strands. Later, she'd see if he would let her comb it for him. Probably not without an argument, she thought, remembering his protest about being able to bathe himself.

She wanted to touch him, but was afraid to do so, afraid of disturbing him. Would he get chilled, lying there with just the fire to warm him? Perhaps she should fetch a blanket from the bed. She frowned at the thought of the wool scratching against his abrasions and decided against it. The fire was warm enough. Instead, she looped both hands around her bent legs and rested her chin on her knees. And watched him sleep.

Her eyes drifted down from his face to his chest, the injuries to his arms and legs. Again, the image formed in her mind of him trapped, being crushed beneath rocks. It could so easily have gone differently. Even now, they could be preparing to bury him. The sick feeling from earlier came back and she again pushed the images out of her mind. He was right that it would do no good to dwell on them. But the tears came anyway.

She had suspected she was falling in love with him before he'd even left for Gondor, perhaps had started to do so as early as their wedding night. She'd wondered about it while he had been gone, while she had been missing him. But it was not until she had seen his injuries, realized how close he'd come to dying, that she had truly understood her own heart. She loved him, so much it was a little frightening. His kindness, his loyalty, his commitment to his people…even the temper she knew he kept a firm rein on.

She wasn't sure how he felt about her, but was willing to give it time. He desired her, enjoyed spending time with her. And it meant a great deal that he had been looking for her when he'd arrived back at Meduseld, that his eyes had not stopped restlessly moving about the courtyard until they'd found her.

Brushing away her tears, she looked at the door that lead to her bed chamber. She was tired. It had been an exhausting few days, and she wanted nothing more than to sleep. With Eomer, though, not alone in her bed

Would he think it foolish of her? Maybe, but it was a risk she was willing to take. She'd probably wake before him, anyway. Standing, she slipped out of her dress, laid it over the chair. Then, clad only in her shift, she laid down next to him, on his right side so there'd be no chance of bumping his left arm with its greater injuries.

With his right arm flung above his head, she was able to snuggle close to him.

On a sigh, she slept.

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Eomer was cold. Or at least most of him was. Oddly enough, it was the side away from the fire that was a little warmer.

Confused, he opened his eyes. Why was he on the floor?

Then he saw the tub, felt the bruises, and memory rushed back, of the rockslide, the ride home, of being cared for by Lothiriel. He smiled a little at the memory of her telling off his advisors. Looking down, he realized that she was the reason one side was still warm – she was curled up next to him, her face tucked in his side.

He'd intended to lay down in front of the fire only long enough to dry off, to get warm, but his exhausted body had had other ideas . The fire had now burned low, though, meaning she would no doubt be getting cold soon as well, if she weren't already. She was always colder than he was.

He thought of waking her, of relocating to the bed, then saw her face, the tracks of her tears, the smudges beneath her eyes. She hadn't been sleeping well, either.

Deciding not to disturb her, he stood, and moved quietly over to the bed, collected one of the covers. He stopped to stir the fire before lying back down next to her, on his side. As expected, she'd curled further into herself, obviously cold. He pulled the cover over them both, then moved closer to her, wrapped his left arm carefully around her. She sighed, relaxed against him.

She'd been weeping. It both disturbed him that she'd been that upset, and, if he was honest, elated him that she cared that much.

Shifting, he pressed a kiss onto her head before slipping back into sleep.

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The next time he awoke, it was because he felt her trying to draw away from him. Frowning, he lifted his head, looked at her. And was puzzled when she blushed, glanced away.

"Lothiriel?"

"I expected to awaken before you." Clearly embarrassed, she motioned to where she'd slept. "I thought you would think me foolish for not seeking my own bed."

"Not hardly," he murmured. He was on his right side, with her tucked next to him, on her back. Raising himself up on his elbow, he shifted even closer to her, deliberately trapped her with his other arm, then leaned down, claimed her mouth with his own.

She responded immediately, unleashing a surge of heat through him. He'd missed this, missed her sweetness and passion. His hand slipped down, cupped her breast, squeezed gently. He wished she'd stripped out of the shift at the same time she'd removed her dress. But that was easily corrected. He smiled at the thought, lifted his head.

The smile faded when he realized she was frowning at him. "What?" Had he misjudged her desire?

Her hands skimmed lightly over his shoulders then came to rest on his chest. "I'm afraid to touch you," she said, distressed. "You're injured everywhere!"

His smile returned, and he leaned down, nuzzled her cheek, buried his face in her soft, scented hair. Then he looked back at her again, a mischievous look on his face. "If you take the shift off, I'll show where you can touch me."

Her eyes slid down his chest to the part of him currently pressing rather insistently against her hip, and she gave him an impish smile, even as her cheeks heated with a blush. It was the kind of contradiction in her that he loved.

He laughed in response, leaned down to kiss her again. Oh, it was good to be home, to be with her. After a moment, he lifted his head. "You may touch me there anytime you like, but that's not actually what I had in mind."

The smile faded, and she looked at him consideringly for a long moment. "Are you sure you should really do this? Perhaps you should sleep more." Her fingers gently touched one of the raw places on his arm.

"I've been asleep for hours. I can do without more sleep. But you… I've been without you for far too long. I've missed you, too," he said softly.

She smiled at that, obviously pleased by the comment. Then shoved very gently on his chest. "Then by all means, let me up so I can remove my shift."

Laughing at her insistent tone, he did as she requested.

She sat up, shivered as the covers dropped to her waist. "It's cold."

"I can assist you with that as soon as the shift is gone," he said with another smile.

"I'm sure you can." Her tone was dry, but a smile still lurked on her lips. Wiggling around, she pulled the shift off, over her head, then looked at him, the smile becoming more pronounced. "Well?"

He couldn't have spoken if she'd held a knife to him – looking at her in the faint light of the dying fire, his throat had gone dry with desire. Instead, he pulled her back down, tugged the covers over them before dropping his mouth to her breast. Then smiled as she jerked against him in reaction to his warm mouth against her cold skin.

He pleasured her – both of them – by lingering there for long moments, then looked up at her. She'd found her own place for her hands, had buried them in his hair. Smiling again, he leaned down, resumed kissing her.

Despite the intensity of his desire for her, he delayed taking their lovemaking to the next level as long as he could, giving them both pleasure as he touched and tasted her, as he encouraged her to touch him by pointing out all the places on his body that were without bruises.

But finally, as the sky outside the window began to lighten with the first suggestion of dawn, he eased into her, watched her eyes darken as he did so. He kept that connection, his eyes on hers, as he began to move, willed her to see all that was in his heart for her as they both found their pleasure.

Afterwards, he rolled them over, pulled her on top of him. Lazily letting his hand drift up and down her back, he closed his eyes, drifted in contentment. He'd told himself he was determined to get home for her, for her birthday. He now knew that it had only been a half-truth, at best. Arriving home, battered, bruised, and cold, to find her waiting for him, so determined to care for him, had healed a loneliness in him, an ache he hadn't even known existed.

"I shouldn't be here," she mumbled. "I'll hurt you."

He tightened his arms around her, not prepared to let her go. "You don't weigh that much. Besides, where you're lying was hardly bruised, remember?"

She shook her head, as if deciding against arguing with him, and they laid that way for a few moments longer before she finally slipped off of him, to the side, still being careful of his bruises and scrapes.

"There's something I don't understand."

"And what is that?" He turned his head, looked at her.

"If the rockslide you were trapped in happened over a day away, the rains we've been having must have been happening very far south and east as well."

"We encountered heavy rains all along the road," he said. "All the way from Minas Tirith, in fact. Many villages are flooded, and the road as well in places."

"Then why did you leave Minis Tirith? Or not stop in one of the villages until the rains stopped?"

"I wanted to be here on the 18th."

She stared at him for a long moment, plainly puzzled. Then, as understanding replaced the confusion in her eyes, she jerked away from him, sat up. Reaching for her shift, she stood, but instead of putting it on she stalked over to the fire. She paused there a moment before bending to tend it..

"Lothiriel?" Baffled, he sat up, prepared to follow her, when she turned back to stare him.

"Let me see if I understand this properly." Her eyes were hot with anger, but her voice was calm. Rigidly so. "You dragged your men through floods all the way from Minas Tirith, nearly died in a rockslide, because you wanted to be here for my birthday?"

He stared at her in puzzlement. "My men are used to riding in the rain," he finally said. "And when we left, we didn't know it was going to be like that all the way home. I believed we would surely ride out of it."

"Well you didn't, did you?"

There was a bitterness to her voice that he didn't understand, and he ran his hand through his hair in frustration. "It was _rain._" He kept his voice even, strove for a reasonable tone. "Surely you wouldn't have it said that men who faced the Black Gates of Mordor were afraid of rain?"

Her eyes flashed, and she opened her mouth to speak, then snapped it shut, spun around to the fire again, obviously deciding against making a response.

He stared at her back for a long moment, searched for the words that would calm her. It was difficult when he didn't understand the source of her anger. It surprised him. And here he'd expected her to be pleased that he'd remembered her birthday.

Indignation at the thought slipped in as he remembered how hard he'd tried to get home, and he stood. It was one thing to have an argument while they were both stark-naked, but he refused to be taken to task any further while sitting on the floor.

He walked over to her, then took a step backwards, deciding to keep his distance. Faramir had warned him that she had a temper, but he'd never seen it, had begun to think that perhaps she'd outgrown it without her cousin realizing it.

Apparently not. She was still gripping the shift as if she were fighting the urge to rend it seam from seam. Better the shift than him.

Still trying to stay calm, he spoke carefully. "My men are used to riding in the rain," he said again, "and when we left, we didn't know it was going to be like that all the way home. I kept thinking we'd ride out of it," he repeated, at a loss as to how to calm her.

She turned to him, anger still flashing in her eyes. "You should have stopped at one of the villages. It was foolish to continue in the rain, through floods, no less." Her knuckles were white against the shift.

Gritting his teeth, he grabbed hold of the last threads of his composure, but felt temper threatening to claw its way out. "Careful, my lady. I do not take kindly to you insulting my men in such a fashion."

"It is not your men I consider fools, as they were merely following you," she snapped, then turned from him again, to stare back into the fire, her body still rigid.

Temper broke free. "You know nothing of the weather we're used to riding in! You think we kept the borders of the Riddermark safe by hiding from rain?"

"That was different! There was a good reason for that!" Her voice broke on the last word.

She still had her back to him, and it made him even angrier. He closed the distance between them, was rougher than he'd intended to be when he turned her toward him. "You're a good reason."

The rage was gone, the fury in her eyes replaced by tears. Shaking her head, she said, "Not for that. Not at that cost. You nearly died." Her voice tight with the tears she was fighting, she tried to turn from him again.

He didn't allow her to. It was impossible to maintain his own anger in the face of her distress. He gathered her to him, forced her head against his chest. "I didn't."

After a moment, she got herself under control, looked up at him. "You could have." She swallowed hard. "I was so lonely on my birthday." A tear slid down her cheek. "No one knew, and even Beril forgot. I wanted you here, so much. But I can't bear to think that you were trying to get to me through such dangerous conditions. Can't bear to think of you trapped liked that, because of me."

He wiped the tears away. "Then don't think of it," he said quietly. "I've had many close calls, may well have many more. But it is not yet my time." He pressed a kiss on her forehead. "I would not have started home if I'd known how bad it was," he admitted. "But I wanted to be here, to be with you. Wanted you to know I remembered the date and why it was important. And I kept thinking the weather would improve. We've not had these kinds of rains in the autumn in living memory, and I had no way of knowing just how bad it was. All the way north, I kept thinking we'd surely ride out of them."

She took a shuddering breath, closed her eyes. "I'm sorry for my temper," she murmured. "It was bad enough thinking of you trapped in that rockslide. Realizing it was because of me…"

"Don't think of it, then,." he said again. "Although your birthday was a major factor, it was not the only one. I'd been gone from you and the Mark for far too long already. I needed to get home." He brushed her lips with a light kiss. "I considered getting home to you well worth a long, wet ride in the rain," he said. "But as I indicated, if I'd known it was that dangerous, I would certainly have waited somewhere."

"There's always danger of some kind," he reminded her gently. "Even the best riders get thrown by a suddenly spooked horse; there are still brigands and unsavory men who lurk in the dark, uncivilized corners of the world. And I'm always going to be trying to get back to you, to the Mark, as soon as I can, regardless of the date."

He wondered if she fully understood all that he was admitting to her.

She shivered, and he realized that with the heat of her temper fading, she was feeling the chill of the room again, even with the fire now burning brightly behind her. He stepped away for a moment, grabbed the blanket, draped it over her. With his arms once more tight around her, he rested his cheek on her head.

"I'd like nothing better than to take you back to bed and warm you properly," he murmured with regret. "But the hall will be stirring soon, and I must meet with the council."

She sighed against him. "Yes. They need an opportunity to plague you with questions about the number of sheep you expect to trade to Gondor next year."

He choked with laughter at her tone. "Oh, it is good to be home." Tilting her face back up, he kissed her. "I expect there will be a celebration in the hall tonight to welcome me and my men back, but afterwards, you and I will have our own celebration."

She looked over to the skin where they'd slept and loved, and smiled at him. "I thought we'd already done so."

He raised an eyebrow at her. "But there's still this matter of your birthday. I have gifts."

"You do?" Wonder came into her eyes. "Can I see them?"

He laughed at her. "No. Not until tonight."

She pretended to pout for a moment, then slipped her arms up around his neck, apparently trusting his arms to keep the blanket around her. "That's fine. I can wait. I've already had my best gift," she said, kissing him.

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A/N: I'm glad you enjoyed the last chapter -- I hope this one lives up to expectations! There's still the gift-giving scene to come -- I'll try to post it before the weekend.

Thanks again for all your comments, and a special note to Shana1 -- I hope your guy comes home safely, and soon. And now, I'm off to watch the EE!


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Special thanks to everyone who has taken the time to review this. I'm glad so many of you have enjoyed it.

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Lothiriel took a sip of wine and smiled. It was hard not to. The great hall of Meduseld was full of happy and excited people. A single day could make a great deal of difference – the mood of the hall, indeed, all of Edoras, was very different this evening than it had been the afternoon before.

Eomer was home, and she was not the only one rejoicing in that fact – it was as if the entire city had let out a relieved sigh. She was sure some of the atmosphere was due to the presence of the men in Eomer's guard, as other wives and families had welcomed the men home with the same relief she'd experienced. But still, much of the changed mood was simply due to the presence of the king. Although they were accepting of the fact that he occasionally had to travel, they much preferred having him home.

She understood the feeling.

Looking up from where she was leaning against one of the pillars, she saw him across the room, laughing at something Elfhelm had said and looking impossibly handsome. He was still in some discomfort, that was obvious from the way he moved, the way he held his arm. But to his disgruntlement, the healers had insisted on examining him that morning, eventually declaring that he would fully recover. Although she'd had no doubts about that after the night they'd shared, they'd both understood that such reassurance was necessary for the people of Rohan. With rumors circling about the rockslide, the Rohirrim needed to know that he had suffered no lasting injury.

He moved slightly, looked around the hall, then smiled when his eyes found her. She smiled back, her heart skittering a bit at the intimacy of that shared look.

Their relationship had changed.

For her, it had been realizing how easily he could have died in that rockslide, realizing how much she loved him.

She wasn't sure when things had changed for him, only that they had. The look in his eyes when he'd they'd made love that morning, when he'd been inside her…that had never been there before. As much as their loving had meant to her before he'd left for Gondor, she'd never seen that particular look of need, possession, connection, before.

She'd always known that while he desired her and enjoyed her company, that he also felt responsible for her. But it was not a sense of responsibility that had driven him through the cold rain, driven him to take foolish chances, just to be with her. The thought of that, of him being caught in that rockslide simply because he was trying to make it home for her birthday, still caused her stomach to twist. But the knowledge of what was behind that ride through the rain thrilled her.

He loved her. She was sure of it. And it changed everything.

She took another sip of wine, and realized that he'd moved, was no longer talking to Elfhelm. But before she could look around for him, she felt hands come to rest on her waist, heard his voice, husky and very soft, in her ear.

"Are you enjoying yourself?"

"Of course." She smiled up at him, didn't add that she'd enjoyed all the mundane tasks of the day, simply because she knew he was somewhere near.

"Oh?" He gave her a mock disappointed look. "That's unfortunate."

"Why?" Puzzled, she stared at him, then understood when she saw the twinkle in his eye.

He looked around the room, leaned closer to her. "Because I think we could probably retire to our chambers for a much more private celebration now," he said very softly.

Her heart leaped, and she smiled at him conspiratorially, then said, "do you think they'll notice?" as she motioned to the room full of excited people.

He looked around, then gave her a mischievous look. "Not as long as the food and drink keep flowing. Of course, if you'd rather stay here…"

She laughed, loving this cheerful, playful side of him. "Oh, no, your majesty. You're not escaping that easily."

"Who said I wanted to escape?" Even as he spoke, he took the wine out of her hand, set it on the nearest table, then started leading her through the crowd. He greeted those they passed, but didn't stop, and Lothiriel caught more than one glance that was both pleased and amused. Not only did their people not mind if she and Eomer left early, she suspected they quite liked the idea of the king and queen having a relationship where they wanted to do so.

As he opened the door to the sitting room and led her through it, Eomer admitted to himself that as much as he was looking forward to spending the evening with her, he was also a bit apprehensive. There was still too much he didn't understand about the rituals associated with a birthday. What if it ended up making her sad rather than pleasing her? What if his gift were a disappointment?

He secured the door behind them, then turned to her. She was standing next to him, staring at the fireplace with a bemused smile on her face.

"What's all this?" she motioned to where a bottle of wine and two goblets sat on the floor next to the furs in front of the fireplace, along with a light supper, several additional blankets, and a leather bag.

Heat crawled up his face. What had seemed like a good idea when he made the arrangements earlier with Meduseld's housekeeper now merely made him feel foolish. "I wanted it to be special."

She turned to him, laid her hand against his cheek. "The evening itself is special, but this is simply lovely." Her eyes glinted with excitement. "Now what?"

He pressed a kiss into her palm. "Now we celebrate."

He led her to the furs, motioned for her to sit down. He settled next to her, then poured the wine. Handing her one of the goblets, he sipped from the other one before looking at her again.

"If there is some particular protocol or ceremony for the celebrating of birthdays, now would be a good time to tell me."

Her eyes softened, and she leaned over and kissed him. "It's not about protocol. You've already given me the greatest gift, just by remembering it."

"Let's see if I can do better than that." He started to reach for the leather bag, then paused. "Are you hungry?"

She stared at him for a long moment, then started to laugh. "That's cruel."

He grinned at her. It had been a serious question – how did he know that eating first was not part of the ritual? But at least she was amused by it.

He resumed pulling the bag to him. It was his saddlebag, the leather so well-conditioned it had kept its contents dry even through the heavy rains. He opened it, pulled out another, smaller leather bag. Handed it to her. "These are from your father, brothers, and Faramir."

A curious look on her face, she opened the bag, pulled out five rolled up parchments. Her expression softened. "Letters." She smiled up at him. "I'll enjoy reading them later."

"It is my intention to send a messenger to Minas Tirith as soon as these rains cease. He could carry replies for you, if you like."

She smiled. "I would like that very much." Then, to his surprise, she leaned over and kissed him. Five very thorough times.

It took a moment for his mind to catch up. "One for each letter? Is that part of the ritual?"

"I think it's now part of ours," she said mischievously. "Since I can't thank my family, it's only right that I thank the one who delivered the letters."

"I knew I was going to like this celebration," he smiled as he reached into the bag again, pulled out another small leather bag. "This is from your father," he said quietly.

"I wondered if you'd see him. I wasn't sure." Her voice was now a tad unsteady, but she smiled at him.

"He and I talked about the possibility of our visiting Dol Amroth next summer, as long as nothing unexpected happens."

"I would like that." She untied the drawstring, drew out what was inside. It was wrapped in a soft cloth, and she gave him a puzzled glace as she further unwrapped it, then simply sat and stared. "He's been carving driftwood again."

Eomer watched as she lightly traced the oddly shaped wooden box she was holding. It was light in color, and almost seemed luminescent.

"My father has always loved carving the wood deposited by the sea when he had time; it's been a very long time since he's had the luxury." She lifted the lid, laughed with delight.

Imrahil had taken a single piece of driftwood and carved it into a trinket box. The lid fit so snugly it was hard to tell that it even came apart until you looked closely. And inside, wrapped in more soft cloth, were several particularly beautiful sea shells. "I used to collect sea shells and interesting pieces of driftwood when I was a girl." She touched the shells softly. "What a lovely thing for him to have done. He's sent me the sea," she added with a laugh. But he heard the tremor in her voice.

"It was not intended to make you sad," he said gently.

Startled, she looked up, hastily wiped away a stray tear. "I'm not sad. Not really. It's just…" her voice faded, then came back stronger. "There are four shells here, plus the driftwood box." She tucked the shells back into the box, set it aside, then leaned over, slid her arms up around his neck. "That gets you this, I think." And kissed him.

His mind emptied.

When he was able to focus – and breathe – again, he realized she was nearly in his lap, looking at him with an uncertain and shy smile completely at odds with the passion of the kiss. And then he understood. She was as aware as he that their relationship was changing, and as much as she loved the gifts, she wanted the evening to be about the two of them rather than just being a celebration of her birthday. But while she'd always responded enthusiastically to his lovemaking, she'd never really taken the lead in it, and was feeling a bit insecure about what she was trying to show him.

He would reassure her. Wrapping his arms around her, he prevented her from shifting away from him, then leaned down, nuzzled her cheek. "If you keep thanking me that way, we may not get to the rest of your gifts," he murmured.

She laughed softly, then pulled away from him. "We can't have that."

He smiled, then reached for the leather bag. "This is from Eowyn," he said, handing her another piece of rolled up parchment. "It's not a letter."

She gave him a puzzled look before carefully breaking the seal and unrolling it. He heard her quick intake of breath as she stared at the drawing. "This is lovely. I had no idea that your sister was talented in such a way."

"I didn't either," he admitted, looking at the drawing of Faramir. "She used to draw instead of practicing her letters when they were teaching us to read and write, but she hadn't done any deliberately for years – at least not that I'm aware of. Parchment is not as easy to come by in the Mark as it is in Gondor, which I'm sure is a factor in it."

She was still staring at the likeness of her cousin, lightly tracing his figure. Then she looked up, smiled. "I shall treasure it. But the next time I see her, I shall tell her that as fond as I am of Faramir, that there's another drawing I'd much rather have." Color came into her cheeks, but she kept her eyes steady on his.

It took a moment to realize she meant a drawing of him, and his heart jerked. Unable to stop himself, he leaned down and kissed her. "That you would say that is a gift to me, so I get this kiss," he said quietly.

When he lifted his head, he hugged her to him for a moment, then reached for the leather bag. Refused to feel nervous that all that was left was his gift.

He pulled the small pouch out, handed it to her. With a curious look on her face, she glanced at him before untying it, dumping the small item out in her hand. She made an impatient noise when she realized it was yet further wrapped, and quickly unbound it, only to let out a soft cry when she could finally see it.

Her fingers trembled as she held the pendant up to the firelight, which he took as a good sign.

She turned it around, and he saw her face go still as she identified what she was seeing. It was done in silver filigree, a graceful and intricate design of a horse facing a swan, and in the middle, between them, two jewels – dark green and blue, bound together with thin strands of delicate silver.

"For Rohan and Dol Amroth," she murmured. Tears came, and she turned to him, leaned against him, even as she continued to admire his gift.

He hugged her to him, kissed the top of her head. "Gimli created it from a design I gave him."

"He did? I didn't think he did this kind of work."

Eomer smiled. "He was intrigued by the concept; he also quite liked sharing in your birthday gift."

"But the design idea was yours." She lifted her head, looked at him.

He nodded.

She smiled, lifted her free hand to touch his face. "I love that Gimli did it for me. But I love that it was your idea even more. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

"It's not as beautiful as you are." Even as the words left his mouth, he winced, felt heat rush into his cheeks. Was that the best he could do, when there was so much more he wanted to say?

Her smile at the words faded to confusion as she noted his embarrassment, and he reached up, cupped her cheek with his hand, rubbed the soft skin with his calloused thumb. He wanted the smile back.

"I have no problem mustering my men for battle," he said finally said quietly. "I can negotiate peace between different eoreds, and I can hold my own in debates with my council. But you…I have no words for you, for what I've come to feel for you."

As he spoke, the puzzlement faded, her eyes softened as she gazed at him. Then she pulled away from him, stood up. Before he could quite grasp what was happening, she slipped out of her dress, then pulled off her shift.

Breath strangled in his throat, and coherent thought fled.

Blushing furiously but with her eyes still on him, she settled in front of him again. Then the blush faded, was replaced by a knowing smile as she took in his response to her, and she touched his chin, brought his eyes up to hers.

"Words are important, but can also be over-rated." Her words were soft. "Show me."

He swallowed, managed a breath, pulled her to him. "Gladly, my love," he murmured unsteadily as he bent to kiss her.

* * *

_Epilogue _

It was the middle of the afternoon, two days later, when he found her standing in the middle of the great hall, a bemused look on her face.

"Lothiriel? What is it?"

She smiled at him, but her expression was still puzzled. "I was just talking to two more of your guards. Do you know that nearly every one of them has made a point of telling me in the last two days how glad they are that I'm here and how much they appreciate me? It's wonderful, but—what? What's so amusing?"

Thinking of his efforts to explain birthdays to Eothain, and the other man's baffled reaction to the concept, it took him a long moment to stop laughing, but he finally brought himself under control. Reaching for her hand, he brought it up, kissed it. "I believe that's your final birthday gift, my love."


End file.
